


The Stanford Adventure Club

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Series: The Stanford Adventure Club [5]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic), Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Friendship, John Winchester School of Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: Going to school on opposite coasts can be a hard prospect for any pair of best friends. When John Winchester forbids Dean to go to college atall, Dean fears he'll lose Gil Wulfenbach's friendship altogether. Gil's determined not to let that happen, though, and Stanford holds old and new acquaintances to join their circle of friends... a bond that will soon be forged in blood.
Relationships: Agatha Heterodyne/Gilgamesh "Gil" Wulfenbach, Tarvek Sturmvoraus/Colette Voltaire
Series: The Stanford Adventure Club [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023742
Kudos: 2





	1. Breaking Up the Band

**Author's Note:**

> A brief word of explanation about Stanford’s coterminal programs, most of which are in the sciences: The idea is that a student entering as a freshman will study for five years instead of the standard four, start Master’s-level work while finishing the Bachelor’s, and in most cases graduate with both the BS and MS at the same time.
> 
> Also, a warning: John’s really a thoughtless jerk in this one, even when he tries not to be.

_January 28, 1998  
Colorado Springs, Colorado_

“ _Stanford?!_ ” Dean and Sammy Winchester gasped in excited chorus.

Gil Wulfenbach blinked. “Okay. That’s exactly what Dad and Agatha both said when I called them. Why is Stanford such a big deal?”

Dean’s jaw dropped, but Sammy replied, “It’s one of the eight schools in the Ivy League—the most prestigious colleges in the country.”

Gil frowned. “I thought that was a sports term.”

“Well, it is, kinda, but most college athletic conferences are based on geography. The Ivy League was created specifically for those schools precisely because of their reputations.”

“Huh. Wow. I just liked what I read about their coterminal Aeronautics and Astronautics program. It’s really that elite?”

Sammy nodded so hard, Gil thought his head might fall off. “I’d _love_ to get into one of the Ivies. Everyone thinks—I mean—the way we live—”

“Dude,” Dean interrupted, “you do _not_ have to explain to _us_.”

Sammy blushed a little and nodded in acknowledgment before returning his attention to Gil. “So they gave you a full ride?”

Gil nodded. “Says National Merit covers the first four years, and since I already know I want to apply to Aero/Astro after the first two years, Boeing will cover the rest. Tuition and fees, at least; doesn’t say about room and board.”

It was really a minor miracle, he thought, that he hadn’t lost his place as a National Merit Scholar. He and Dean should have graduated the year before, but in March they’d both caught mono from the same girl—without either of them even having kissed her!—and had been laid up for so long that they’d had to repeat their senior year. Dad’s friend Dr. Sun had put Gil straight in the hospital because his organs were swelling badly, and Dean had joined him after about a week with pneumonia on top of the mono. Dr. Sun still wasn’t sure they hadn’t been cursed. All Gil knew for sure was that he’d never been so sick in all his life... not that he ever got sick much, but when he did, it never lasted long.

“There should be other scholarships that can help with that part,” Sammy stated. “You could go talk to the counselor about it tomorrow.”

“Actually, I can’t,” Gil admitted, fighting a smile. “Gotta get my paperwork together so I can transfer out this weekend.”

“Transfer? Transfer where?”

Dean grinned knowingly. “Beetleburg?”

Gil ducked his head and couldn’t prevent a blush or a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Dad said he’d set things up with the Harvelles so I can stay at the Roadhouse until graduation.”

Dean laughed and punched Gil’s shoulder. “You _dog!_ If you don’t ask Ags out this time, I swear I’m gonna do it for you.”

Gil felt his face grow hotter. “Dean, I’m perfectly capable—”

“Yeah, sure, which is why your face is redder than Tarvek’s hair right now.”

A suspicious burble that probably _wasn’t_ caused by the aerator burst from the lobster tank.

And the penny finally dropped for Sammy. “OHHHH! Dude, that’s awesome!”

Gil grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. Then he took a deep breath. “So Dean, have you—”

Now it was Dean’s turn to duck his head. “Man, I didn’t even _think_ about applying to the Ivies.”

“But did you get in anywhere?”

“Georgia Tech,” he mumbled.

“DUDE!” Sammy cried. “That’s awesome!”

“Georgia Tech was my second choice, actually,” Gil agreed. “Third choice was MIT.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, but... we’re gonna be on opposite coasts.”

“ _Dean_ , real friendships don’t depend on distance. I’m sure we’ll both have email, plus there’s a variety of instant messaging software out there, and more coming out all the time. It’ll be easy to keep in touch.”

Dean’s eyebrows had gone up at the words _instant messaging_. “Don’t you have to, like, subscribe to AOL to get instant messaging?”

“Maybe for AIM; I don’t know. But ICQ is free.”

“It still won’t be the same.”

“I know that. But look, Agatha and I have been pen pals for... six years now? And we’ve lived in how many places in that time? It’s not _that_ hard to keep up a long-distance friendship if you make the time for it.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

“Plus, you’ll be in one place for four whole years. You’ll make tons of new friends—maybe even a real girlfriend!”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Dean shot back, but he was smiling. “My girlfriends are real!”

“Dean, you don’t have girlfriends,” Sammy chimed in, rolling his eyes. “You have hook-ups. That’s not the same.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but he was interrupted by the sound of a truck pulling up outside. “That’s Dad,” he observed instead. “I don’t hear Uncle Klaus, though.”

Gil shook his head. “No, Dad said he’d catch up with me in Beetleburg. He’s got some sort of side job he has to take care of—pretty hush-hush. I don’t think it’s a hunt.”

“Oh. Welp, guess I’d better go give Dad the good news, see if he’ll let us go to Beetleburg with you.” And with that, Dean went back through the connecting door and closed it behind him.

Sammy, meanwhile, stayed behind to help Gil feed Zoing and chatter about colleges and hopes and dreams. Gil was just explaining his idea for a new type of search and rescue helicopter when they heard Uncle John yell “WHAT?!”

Sammy and Gil both flinched and turned to look at the connecting door with wide eyes as Dean’s barely audible voice tried to compete with Uncle John’s raised voice. Gil couldn’t make out much, but he did catch phrases like “responsibility to this family” and “Klaus Wulfenbach is not your father! _I am!_ ” And he didn’t have to hear Dean’s reply to feel his fear, anger, hurt, and disappointment.

Finally, Unc— _John_ stormed out and drove off again. And Dean came back into the Wulfenbachs’ room, looking like he was about to cry, and slid something into the trash can next to the dresser.

“What did he say?” Sammy asked.

Dean shook his head despondently. “Forget it, Squirt.”

“Deeean....”

“I said forget it. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Gil asked quietly.

Dean took a deep breath. “Would you... take Sammy to school for me tomorrow?”

Gil nodded. “Sure, Dean.”

“Thanks.” Dean turned to Sammy. “C’mon. Time for homework.”

Sammy sighed heavily and followed Dean through the connecting door. Once it was closed, Gil went to the trash can and pulled out the envelope Dean had thrown away.

It was his Georgia Tech acceptance letter.

Gil hadn’t felt such rage since Lucrezia Mongfish had forced her way out of her cursed locket and into Agatha Clay’s head. It was all he could do not to crumple the letter and throw it against the wall, or into Zoing’s tank. But instead, after a moment’s pause, he put it carefully in his school notebook behind his own acceptance letter to preserve it.

He didn’t know how he’d manage it yet, but he promised himself then and there that he’d see to it that Dean got the education he deserved, even if it didn’t come with a diploma.

* * *

John Winchester shuffled out of the bathroom after his shower the next morning feeling very much in need of caffeine. He’d barely managed to wake up enough to say goodbye to the boys before they left for school. He wouldn’t say he was hung over, especially since his bar crawl the night before had netted a hefty profit from hustling pool and poker before he’d lost count of the beers, but... he definitely needed coffee.

He’d helped himself and gotten through about half of his first cup when he turned to the table and saw a stubble-cheeked Dean sitting there, aimlessly stirring his cereal.

“Dean?” he asked.

“Morning, Dad,” Dean murmured but didn’t look up.

“Thought you left.”

Dean shook his head and still didn’t look up. “No, sir.”

John looked around and didn’t see his younger son. “Where’s Sammy?”

“Gil took him to school, sir.”

“Something wrong with the car?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sick?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you better get goin’, then, or you’ll be late.”

“No, sir.”

“What do you mean, ‘no, sir’?”

“I mean I’m not going. Sir.”

John scowled and put down his mug. “What the hell are you talking about, Dean?”

“I’m nineteen years old—”

“Like hell you are!”

Dean finally looked up at that, eyes blazing. “Dad, do you even know what _day_ it is?!”

“It’s...” John looked at his watch and froze when he read the date: _1/29_. The blood drained from his face when he looked up at Dean again. “I... I missed your birthday? Son, I... I... I’m so sorry. I thought....”

Dean looked down at his mushy cereal again. “It’s okay, Dad.”

“No, it isn’t. I don’t have a good excuse, not this time.”

“My _point_ ,” Dean continued firmly, though still avoiding eye contact, “is that I’m an adult now, and if I’m not going to college, there’s no point in my finishing high school.”

That statement landed like a punch to John’s gut. “That’s not what I—”

“Dad, if you need my help hunting more than I need to go to college, then you need my help _now_. Maybe I can help you catch the thing that killed Mom even sooner. And if college isn’t going to be any use in hunting, then high school’s an even bigger waste of time. Just... let me get my GED and get it over with. Please.”

John sat down at the table, chest aching from the defeat in Dean’s voice. “Will you give me a day to think it over?”

Dean nodded glumly. “Yes, sir.”

“And since you’ve already decided to skip a day, maybe we can do something for a belated birthday.”

Dean shook his head. “Dad, you don’t have to. Gil and Sammy and I already had our own party.”

“That’s fine, but I should have been there, and I wasn’t. I should have _called_ , if nothing else, and I didn’t do that, either. I want to make that up to you. How ’bout a movie?”

“There’s nothin’ good in the theaters. We looked.”

“Well, at least let me take you out to breakfast.”

Dean sighed. “Dad, you _don’t have to_. I know we don’t have the money. Uncle Klaus had to spot us enough to get pizzas and soda.”

John’s stomach rolled. “What?”

“We only ate two pieces each,” Dean added quickly. “And we didn’t invite anyone else. We had enough to last until supper last night.”

“What the hell did you do with the money I left for you?”

“I _bought groceries_ , Dad! But the prices keep going up! I tried, I swear, but... you were gone for almost a month, but even with Gil’s help, I couldn’t make it stretch more than three weeks! I had to steal extra milk and fruit from the lunch counter; we were running out of peanut butter—”

John groaned. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Sammy has never gone hungry, sir.”

That struck a chord of dread in John’s heart, and he looked— _really looked_ —at his son for the first time in quite a while. And what he saw was a scared but determined young man who’d have been put on double or even triple rations during Basic if he’d joined the Marines. How long had Dean been stinting himself to make sure Sammy had plenty? Had Gil been doing the same? Had Gil _needed_ to do the same?

Was that why both boys had wound up with such severe mono the previous school year? Sun _had_ mentioned something about malnutrition....

“You’re not to starve yourself anymore,” John said aloud. “A starving man’s a liability in combat. You let yourself get any weaker, and I won’t be able to depend on you to back me up in a fight. Double rations until further notice. That’s an order.”

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir. But—”

“Tomorrow I want you to make me a food budget. Give me current prices, even with coupons. Factor in the double rations, too. That’ll give me a better sense of how much money I need to leave you when I’m gone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to keep it current, too, updates every time we move.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As for today, I did some good hustling last night, so we can afford to eat breakfast and lunch out before we get groceries. And I don’t want you saving any for Sammy, is that clear?”

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“All right. Go get cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean drained his mug, dumped his cereal goop in the trash, and hurried into the bathroom.

John retrieved his mug, drained and refilled it, and went back to the table to stare at his watch. He’d left money for two weeks. He thought he’d been gone for maybe two and a half. He’d actually been gone for four. How the _hell_ had he lost so much time? He hadn’t been sick or drunk (much); he just... he’d flat out forgotten what day it was.

And this college thing. He knew he’d overreacted to the idea of Dean going to college, but... his boys were all he had. Settling down for even one year was a hell of a risk, given what the demons were saying about Sammy. He couldn’t lose Dean that way. Plus, he’d panicked over the cost, given that he’d spent the boys’ college funds on ammo years ago. But— _hellfire_ , he’d never meant to cause a reaction like _that_. Granted, the only reason he’d finished high school himself was that his recruiter wouldn’t let him enlist early, but Pops would kill him if he were there to know Dean was considering dropping out, and so would Mary. At the same time, though... Dean’s logic was looking pretty unassailable, and his proposal was looking awfully attractive.

How the flaming hell had he let things come to _this?!_

John finished his second cup about the time Dean came out of the bathroom, but they didn’t say much to each other on the way to the diner or during the meal until Dean had, as ordered, eaten every bite of his eggs, pancakes, bacon, and hash browns. Dean didn’t look at John much, either, even when he’d finished clearing his plate. Nor did he flirt with the waitress, who looked like she’d very much like to flirt back.

After she’d cleared their plates and left the check, John sighed. “I’ve been thinking it over, Dean.”

Dean finally looked up. “Sir?”

“You’re right. I do need you now more than you need to be in school.”

Dean didn’t flinch visibly, but something in his eyes said that wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for. “Y-you do?”

John nodded. “I just lost almost two weeks, and I have no idea how. Uncle Klaus didn’t even remind me of your birthday. Now, on the one hand, that’s not really his job anymore. But on the other hand... if I can’t trust myself, and I can’t trust him, I need someone else who I _can_ trust to make sure nothing happens to Sammy if I lose it altogether.”

“He could move to Atlanta with me,” Dean suggested, but there wasn’t much hope in his voice.

“It’s too dangerous to stay in one place for that long. Besides that, I do need another pair of eyes looking for evidence of the thing that killed your mother. Uncle Klaus is starting to get more interested in looking for Barry Sanders. I can’t be certain he won’t miss something. But with your help, we might be able to avenge Mom before Sammy graduates. Then maybe it _will_ be safe for him, and you, to go to college.”

Dean sighed heavily. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, I know you’ll miss Gil. He’s a good friend. But he is not your brother. And I know Agatha’s your cousin, and you love her, but that in itself is not reason enough for me to let you and Sammy move to Beetleburg for the rest of the school year. Besides, the Clays don’t have room for you both.”

“What about the Harvelles?”

“No sons of mine are going to live in the back rooms of a bar, especially a _hunter_ bar. There’s a reason I’ve kept you away from all but a select few hunters, like Jim, Caleb, and Bobby. Most of the hunters I’ve known are not men of good character. I don’t trust them at all unless I have to work with them for one reason or another. I definitely don’t trust them around you.”

Dean ducked his head. “Yes, sir.”

“So wherever we are Monday, here or somewhere else, I want you to start the paperwork for the GED then. In the meantime, like I said: shopping today, budget tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

That plan was immediately scrapped, however, when they got back to the truck and John’s pager went off with Caleb’s emergency code. As soon as they got back to the motel, John called, got details—a major ghoul nest; he couldn’t risk Dean’s life on that—stripped $100 off his wad of hustling money, left the rest on the table, and sped away before Dean could even ask what was going on.

He never found out that Dean unearthed the partial bottle of whiskey in the bottom of the duffle John had left behind, locked himself in the bathroom, and drank until he passed out in the bathtub. It was early enough in the day that Dean came to and managed to clean himself up before Sammy and Gil got home, but Gil still had to do the grocery run while leaving Sammy to make sure Dean didn’t try to drive anywhere.

In fact, by the time John finally got back to claim his sons, Gil was long gone, Dean had passed his GED, and Sammy was in full teenager mode. And John completely forgot about the budget Dean had carefully prepared while he was away.

That went in the trash, too.

* * *

Gil tried with all his might to tell himself that leaving the Winchesters in Colorado Springs was good practice for college. That he’d be making new friends in Beetleburg. That living in Harvelle’s Roadhouse for four months wasn’t any different from the times Dad had left him, with or without a sitter, in the various smoke-musty motels and cheap apartments they’d lived in for as long as he could remember, even before meeting the Winchesters.

It didn’t work.

Matters weren’t much better at the Roadhouse when he arrived Sunday evening than they had been in Colorado Springs. Mr. Harvelle and at least half of the bar’s regular customers had all gone to Wyoming on the same hunt that had presumably called Un— _John_ away; Mrs. Harvelle was clearly worrying about the loss of business and about her husband’s safety, and Jo, who was only in seventh grade, was huffy about having another boy living with them. And the boy who was already there, Ash? He’d been kicked out of MIT for fighting shortly before Thanksgiving and, at least the first day, was more interested in trying to convince Gil to smoke pot and get drunk with him than in talking about the computer he’d built from scratch. He wasn’t put off by Gil’s refusals and school-night disclaimers until Gil literally slammed his bedroom door in Ash’s face and turned off the light.

Gil missed Dean like he’d lost a lung. And as he changed for bed in the light of Zoing’s tank, the wailing of one particular weepy drunk that carried all the way back to Gil’s room kept reminding him of Dean reaching again and again for the bottle Gil kept moving out of his grasp, hiccupping through his tears— _’M worthless, ’m useless, can’t do nothin’ right no more... he lef’ me, Gil, he jus’ lef’ me...._

Before long, Gil found himself all but hugging the tank, his forehead resting against the glass as he stared into the dimly lit depths and failed not to cry. “Why wouldn’t they come with us, Zoing?” he whispered brokenly. “Why wouldn’t Dean _leave_ when he had the chance?!”

Zoing made sad noises and tried to pat Gil’s face through the glass.

At some point, they both fell asleep. When the alarm went off, Gil woke up on his knees with his face smushed against the tank, and the glass had a giant smudge on it when he sat up, plus tear spatter and drool marks.

“Oh, swell,” he groaned. “This plan’s off to a _great_ start.” He got up and got dressed so Jo wouldn’t have to see him in his PJs at breakfast.

Just as he was about to leave the room, though, Zoing tapped on the tank wall.

“What?” Gil asked, turning back.

 _Gogetum!_ Zoing replied, holding up one claw as if he were offering a thumbs-up.

Gil couldn’t help smiling and shooting a thumbs-up back.

Breakfast was rushed because Jo had to get to the junior high early to set up a group project, but Mrs. Harvelle did take a moment to tell Gil he looked nice. So it was with slightly more confidence that he drove himself to the high school and started inside to get checked in before the first bell.

He wasn’t expecting his first sight to be a familiar blonde cowlick halfway up the front stairs. And he really wasn’t prepared for Agatha to turn around suddenly, gasp, and come flying down toward him with a squeal of “ _GIL!_ ”

He grinned and spread his hands. “Surprise.”

She bounded off the last step and into his arms, nearly knocking him over with the combined weight of her body and backpack as she threw her arms around his neck and...

... good heavens...

... _kissed him_.

Oh, he’d tried to date other girls over the years. Most of them had either turned him down flat for being a nerd or gone out with him once for his looks but wound up in Dean’s bed after he’d tried to talk about serious subjects over dinner. The few who hadn’t all broke it off after the second or third date, saying they didn’t see any future in their relationship. But none of them, he now realized, had ever had nearly the... the... _electrifying_ effect on him that Agatha always had.

And she was a freshman now. Maybe it really was safe to admit he was in love with her. His arms went around her waist as he rocked forward, leaning into the kiss and setting her on her feet at the same time.

“What are you trying to do,” he teased once he’d caught his breath, “get me busted for PDA before I’ve even checked in?”

She giggled. “Sorry.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he whispered and kissed her back.

She backed off a little then, still smiling. “Where’s Dean? Are he and Sam....”

He shook his head, his smile dimming. “It’s just me.”

“Oh. Where are you staying?”

“The Roadhouse.”

She blinked. “Why? What’s wrong with the motel?”

“Can’t afford it—not for four months.”

She gasped again. “You’re here ’til graduation?!”

“Yup.”

She squeaked happily and hugged him.

He chuckled. “C’mon. I don’t want to make you late for class.”

“Okay.” She kissed him quickly and backed away. “Which lunch do you have?”

“I don’t know yet. Drive you home?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay. See you then.”

She gave him a dazzling smile and went inside, and he braced himself against the railing while he waited for his head to stop spinning. He took a deep breath and blew it out again—and then realized a group of several football player types were staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Dude,” said one of the jocks. “ _You_ know _Agatha Clay?!_ ”

“Oh, yeah. We go way back.”

“She your girlfriend?”

Gil couldn’t help smirking. “What does it look like?” And while they were still gaping at him, he went inside.

As it turned out, he and Agatha did have the same lunch period. She’d brought her lunch, so she saved him a seat while he went through the line, and they spent a pleasant fifty minutes catching up on all the lighter news since their last letters to each other. And when he found her after school, she grabbed his hand without prompting and held it until he opened the car door for her.

“So, um,” he said once he’d gotten in the car himself. “Are we... I mean, will you... I mean... uh... d-do you have plans for next Saturday?”

Her eyes sparkled in amusement. “I don’t have plans, no.”

“Would you... maybe... want to go to Lincoln and... I mean, there’s nothing good in the theaters, but... maybe go to a museum?”

Her smile grew. “Could we be back by 5? The church is having a Valentine’s banquet—steak for two.”

He blinked. “I... thought you said you didn’t have plans.”

She took his hand, looked him in the eye, and said, “I didn’t.”

“Oh. Um.” He floundered a moment; he didn’t have a class ring to offer. Then he remembered the ring on his left thumb, one of a pair Dean had scavenged from a dumpster several states ago. They’d never held any special significance to either friend, since they’d probably belonged to a divorcing couple; Dean had only thought they might be worth pawning in a pinch. Now, though, Gil slid his off and offered it to Agatha, eyebrows raised in question.

She bit her lip, took off the necklace she was wearing, and held out one end of the chain for him to slip the ring over. He did so and then took both ends so he could fasten it back around her neck.

“So?” she asked about the time he got the clasp fastened again.

He started to pull back but stopped and caressed her cheek instead. “Steak sounds great.”

“Museum of American Speed?”

He grinned. “I love you.”

She leaned over and kissed him again. Before he could kiss her back, though, she said “Oh!” and sat back. “Just remembered something I wanted to ask you about. Your scholarship.”

“What about it?” he asked and started the car.

“You said it’s part National Merit and part from Boeing?”

“Yeah, some sort of corporate sponsorship.” He paused long enough to back out safely. “When I called Friday to confirm my attendance, the guy I talked to said it’s for promising Aero/Astro candidates. Apparently Boeing likes my application essays; they’ll give me a housing and textbook stipend and pay tuition and fees for my fifth year, and in return they get first right of refusal on anything I patent as a student, and if they like me enough, they’ll hire me right after graduation.”

“Wow. That sounds great.”

“Yeah.”

“Almost too good to be true.”

They had just reached the stop sign, so it was safe for him to look at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I looked on Stanford’s website. Their admissions page says there’s no financial aid available for coterm fifth-years.”

Frowning, he turned onto the road. “Maybe that just means federal.”

“Maybe.”

“You think it’s a scam?”

“No, but it is odd.”

“Mm. Yeah.” Was something _trying_ to keep Gil away from the Winchesters?

She waited a moment before asking, “Is something wrong with Uncle John?”

He snorted. “No, he’s just being a neglectful, pig-headed idiot. As usual.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Didn’t leave enough money, missed our birthday, came back and yelled at Dean for wanting to go to college, and then ran off on some stupid ghoul hunt without even telling Dean goodbye. Dean was so messed up over it, he was _drunk_ when Sammy and I got home.”

“Oh, _Gil_.”

“I tried, Agatha. I tried _everything_ to get them to come with me. But Sammy wouldn’t leave Dean, and Dean said he couldn’t disappoint John again.”

She sighed and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” They got to the light just as it turned red, which gave him the chance to turn to her with a slight smile. “At least I can tell him I finally asked you out.”

“Oh?”

“He said if I didn’t, he’d do it for me.”

She laughed, and his heart eased a lot more than it should have.

* * *

Life somehow fell into a much easier routine for Gil after that, even with things still unsettled at the Roadhouse. Sundays and Wednesday nights, he went to the Missouri Synod Lutheran church with the Clays, and Aunt Judy insisted that he come over for supper at least one other night every week; he usually did so on Thursdays after Robotics Club, which he joined at Agatha’s invitation. One of their first joint projects was a fleet of cleaning robots that they presented to Mrs. Harvelle, which _finally_ got Ash to drop his outlaw redneck front and help Gil with the trickier parts of his homework in Calculus and Physics. And while Gil inadvertently made a few enemies among his fellow Honors students when it came out that he’d bumped the valedictorian out of the top spot, some of the other senior guys would at least pick him in the first couple of rounds for their teams during gym.

He didn’t have time to go out for varsity sports, though. And that was just as well, because some of the hard-core jocks, especially a freshman by the name of Cody Senear, hated him on sight—and the feeling was entirely mutual.

Dad was mostly on radio silence for the first three weeks, although he did call once a week to touch base. After he’d finished his side job, whatever it was, he joined the other hunters in Wyoming. But Gil didn’t see him again until the Friday after Valentine’s Day. Gil was teaching Jo some pool tricks Ash didn’t know when he looked up to see Dad, his face sporting recent bruises and scabbed-over cuts, limping through the door.

Gil dropped his cue in shock. He’d never seen Dad in this kind of state. When Gil was little, Dad had always seemed to be ten feet tall and as invulnerable as Superman. After they’d met the Winchesters, that impression... hadn’t changed, exactly, but the more supernatural creatures Dad had fought, the more frequently he came home with injuries. They were usually minor, though—a bandaged claw mark here, a fading bite mark there, no worse than Gil got once in a while when hunting with Dean and Sammy, and certainly never as bad as John sometimes came home with. Dad had never had a _limp_ before.

Jo gasped. “Mr. Wulfenbach! Are you all right?!”

“Hi, Joanna,” Dad replied, smiling sadly.

“Do you need help?”

“First aid kit, maybe. And then would you fetch your mother?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered and ran off behind the bar.

Gil, for his part, ran to Dad’s side. “Dad, what happened?”

“It went bad,” Dad said quietly and let Gil help him to a bar stool.

“Here, let me—”

“No, Gil. Not yet. Just bring me some coffee.”

“Yes, sir. Food, too?”

Dad considered, then nodded. “Thanks.”

Gil nodded back and rushed into the kitchen, which was occupied. “Oh! Mrs. Harvelle?”

Mrs. Harvelle turned away from the stove with a smile. “Really, Gil, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s Ellen.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right. What’s up?”

“My dad just came in. He wants to talk to you.”

“Oh! Okay, thanks.” She wiped her hands on the towel hanging on the oven door. “Stew’s about ready, if you want to take him some.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

She left, and he went to the cabinet for a bowl and a mug. While he filled each, as he had done off and on since he was about sixteen, he murmured words he neither fully understood nor knew how he knew and felt some sort of power flow out of him and into the food and drink. He didn’t know why, but whenever he did this, Dad seemed to heal a lot faster.

The process took long enough that he missed almost all of Dad’s conversation with Ellen. When he came back into the main room, however, Jo was crying into Ellen’s shoulder, and Dad was saying, “I’m so sorry, Ellen.”

Ellen drew a ragged breath. “Thank you, Klaus. You’re welcome to stay, but... I... think I’d better close the bar for tonight.”

Dad nodded. “I need to head on after I eat. Thank you, though.”

“All right. Come on, Joanna Beth.” Ellen turned and steered Jo into the back.

Gil set Dad’s food and silverware in front of him. “Dad?”

Dad shook his head. “Not now, son. I’ll tell you after supper.”

“Okay.” Gil went back to the kitchen for his own food and joined Dad at the bar, and they ate in silence. Then he put his hand on Dad’s wrist and sent more power into him, and most of the bruises faded.

“That’s enough,” Dad interrupted gently before Gil could heal him all the way.

“But Dad—”

“That’s enough, son. Thank you. I’m going back to Wyoming; I don’t want to risk too many questions.”

Gil sighed and stopped. “Yes, sir.”

Dad smiled a little and got up, limping less as he walked back to the door.

Gil bit his lip and followed. “Dad, what happened?”

“It went bad, Gil,” Dad replied quietly. “We had twenty hunters, expecting to take on fifty ghouls. Caleb tried, but he couldn’t get anyone else. That was bad enough in itself. But Caleb’s information was wrong—there were more like a _hundred_. And they were desperate. Bill Harvelle was platooning with John and me, but somehow he got separated from us. When we found him... they were literally eating him alive.”

Gil gasped.

“John and I killed the ghouls, but it was too late for Bill. He bled out before we could even get him to the truck.”

“Oh, _man_.”

“That’s why I have to get back to Cheyenne. John’s on a bender. I think... I think part of it’s remembering what happened to me in ’Nam.”

Gil very carefully didn’t say what he thought of John. “When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. Next week, I hope.”

“Okay. Be careful, Dad.”

“I will.” Dad got in his truck, smiled sadly at Gil, and then glanced down at his hands. Frowning slightly, he started the engine and rolled down his window. “Where’s your ring?”

“I gave it to Agatha.”

“You what?”

“I gave it to Agatha. We’re going out.” When Dad stared, Gil protested, “Dad, she’s not—”

Dad sighed and put a hand on Gil’s shoulder. “I know. She’s her father’s daughter, and the Clays are raising her well. But don’t forget that she’s Lucrezia’s daughter, too. Don’t trust her completely, son.” Then he squeezed Gil’s shoulder, rolled up his window, and drove off.

 _Nuts to you, old man_ , Gil thought after him, fists clenching at his sides. _I trust Agatha with my life._

And though he didn’t know it, his eyes flashed green.


	2. We're Gonna Form a Group!

_June 15, 1998  
Palo Alto, California_

While Zoing noodled around in the surf, burbling happily and piling up small rocks and bits of shell he wanted for redecorating his thoroughly-scrubbed tank, Gil finished refilling the tank with fresh seawater and sat back on the sand, drinking in the sea breeze and the pre-dawn twilight. As hard as it had been to say goodbye to Agatha two days before, he had spent the drive from Beetleburg regretting his decision to begin his studies during the summer quarter to start catching up on the year that he’d missed. But now, sitting on the beach like this... something deep down in him felt rooted and refreshed and at peace. Maybe he had made the right choice after all.

After a while, on a whim, he reached forward and, as he often did at the seaside without fully knowing why, stuck his right hand in the water again. _Mom_ , he thought oceanward, _wherever you are... I’m okay_.

Unlike past occasions, however, he felt something drain out of him as the water pulled away. Well, maybe his thoughts would actually reach his mother this time.

His pager went off while he was drying his hand, and when he checked, the number displayed was 439-487-3326— _Hey, it’s Dean_.

Gil smiled. _987-873-2759_ , he sent back: _You’re up early_. It might not be quite as early in whatever time zone Dean was paging from, but Gil knew Dean didn’t like to get up before noon in the summer if he could help it.

 _283-687-5337_ , Dean replied: _Couldn’t sleep_. A few moments later, the pager buzzed again with 866-836-2329, which took Gil a second to decipher into _You move in today?_

 _1-974-897-4373—Yes, wish you were here_. When Dean didn’t respond right away, Gil added _693-767-6298 ext. 2597_ , which was trickier, but he couldn’t get _My door is open to you always_ into any fewer digits than that.

 _*89_ , Dean finally answered, their code for _Thank you_. A few minutes passed before he paged again: _424-733-8587—Gotta go, see you later._

 _655-2837_ , Gil returned: _Okay, later_. Then he sighed and returned his pager to his waistband and his new cell phone to his pocket. This system wasn’t perfect, and their code wasn’t foolproof, but it was better than nothing. And since Dean didn’t have his own computer yet and John was adamant that the boys’ shared cell phone was for emergencies only, pager tag was all Dean and Gil had.

Zoing scuttled out of the water and up Gil’s leg to look at him from the top of his knee. _Izatimetugo?_ Zoing asked, waving his antennae curiously.

Just then a sandpiper scurried over. _Hey, you!_ it chirruped. _This my spot! Go away!_

Gil chuckled. “All right, all right, we’re going. Just a sec.” He put Zoing in his tank, bagged up Zoing’s treasures to give him once they were settled, put the bag in the bucket he’d used to fill the tank, and picked up both bucket and tank to carry back to the car while the sandpiper fussed to itself about humans and started its morning hunt. Once Zoing was firmly settled in the trunk, Gil drove off, scouting stores, restaurants, and apartment complexes on his way toward campus, killing time until the administration offices opened. He was required to live on campus, of course, like all freshmen, but he wasn’t sure he’d want to stay there after the first year; off-campus housing might turn out to be more amenable if he could find decent roommates.

It never occurred to him to brush himself off. Sand never stuck to him anyway.

Precisely at 8, Gil went into the administration building, got his schedule and dorm info, and drove to his new dorm’s main office to receive his keys. Then he pulled the car around to the nearest side entrance of his dorm building, ran upstairs to make sure the room was empty, and dashed down and back up with the tank before anyone could spot him. Once there, he set a salt line at the window and chalked a devil’s trap over the door, then quickly moved one bed in front of an outlet and raised the frame to the top rung on the posts, slid the tank under the bed and plugged in the power cord, and positioned one short dresser and bookcase so the tank couldn’t be seen from the door.

“Okay,” he said when he’d finished. “I’ve gotta go get the rest of my stuff, but I’ll be back in a few minutes. You all right?”

 _Zk!_ Zoing replied merrily. _IzaCAVE!_

Gil laughed. “So it is. Okay, be right back.”

He ran down and brought up the bag of rocks and shells and the box of linens first. Aunt Judy had made him an extra-long bed skirt out of blackout fabric, so Gil placed that before anything else, then stepped back to satisfy himself that it hid the light from the tank. Then he ducked under the bed, dumped the rocks and shells into the tank, and crawled back out to start arranging his half of the room while Zoing worked on arranging his.

Gil had never had one space to settle into for an entire year before. As much work as it was to arrange things, he discovered it was fun. His clothes filled only one drawer, and he didn’t have many books to put on the shelves yet, but that probably wouldn’t last long.

He had just finished hanging the pegboard shelves Uncle Adam had sent and was trying to figure out the best place for the dishes from Ellen when the door opened to reveal a boy with straight black hair and grey eyes, wearing a sweater vest and button-down shirt over knee-length twill shorts and carrying a box of books under one arm and a suitcase in the other hand. “Oh, hullo!” the newcomer said with a crisp English accent. “I say, would you be Gilgamesh?”

“Just call me Gil,” Gil replied and offered his hand.

The newcomer set down his box of books and shook hands. “Ardsley Wooster. I haven’t a nickname, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right, Ardsley. Nice to meet you.”

 _Niztu meechooo!_ Zoing echoed, even though technically he hadn’t met their new roommate yet.

“Delighted!” Ardsley replied with a relieved smile. “Sorry, I suppose I was expecting some toffy-nosed German, with a name like that.”

“Well, my dad’s German,” Gil laughed. “German-American, anyway, Pennsylvania Dutch. He’s never told me anything about my mom. And you’re from... where in England? Manchester?”

“Oh, how clever of you to know!”

“ _Monkees_ reruns on Nick at Nite.”

Ardsley laughed.

“Plus, we spent a couple months in Manchester when I was really little. I don’t remember much, but I do remember the accent.”

Ardsley blinked. “I say, your father’s not _Klaus_ Wulfenbach, is he?”

Gil’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes! You know him?”

“Not personally, no, but I think my father’s worked with him a few times. I expect it’s been... oh, ten, fifteen years ago, now.”

Then it was probably something related to whatever Dad had been doing before he met the Winchesters, and Gil knew better than to press for answers about that stuff. “Huh. Wow. Small world.”

“Yes, so ’tis.”

“Well, I’m just about done with my stuff. Need my help bringing your things in?”

“This is it,” Ardsley confessed, setting down his suitcase. “I haven’t much, I’m afraid. There were only so many things I could afford to bring or ship over. And I’m not much of a Beatles fan, which seems to be _all_ the British merchandise the shops about campus stock.”

Gil chuckled. “I hear you. Okay, well—”

Ardsley suddenly looked past Gil and frowned. “What _have_ you got under your bed, old man?”

Gil closed the door, went back to the bed, and raised the skirt at the foot. “Ardsley,” he said, beckoning Ardsley over, “meet Zoing.”

 _Bink!_ Zoing chirped and waved his claws.

Ardsley stared. “Is that....”

Gil grinned. “Yup.”

“A _live_ one?”

“Yup.”

“Well, what on earth is he doing under there?”

“The rules say we can have fish.” Gil dropped the bed skirt. “They don’t say anything about crustaceans.”

 _ARFROPODZ ROOL!_ Zoing cheered and went back to playing with shells.

Ardsley tried several times to come up with a response. “But... but....”

Gil leaned against the end of the bed. “Look, I rescued him about nine years ago. I’m not getting rid of him. If you know what my dad does, you know why I can’t leave Zoing with him. Most of my other friends aren’t settled enough to take him, either. And my girlfriend lives in Nebraska, which makes it pretty tough for her to get the right kind of saltwater to keep in his tank. So... her mom made me this.” He gestured to the bed skirt.

Ardsley nodded slowly, then took a deep breath. “Well. I shall look forward to learning all about the care and feeding of lobsters.”

 _Liku!_ Zoing announced, and as Gil grinned, he felt the same. Housing assignments might be a lottery, but he’d hit the jackpot with Ardsley.

* * *

There wasn’t any sort of new student orientation for the summer term, so Gil and Ardsley didn’t have much to do besides getting to know each other and the campus. Ardsley, it turned out, was planning to enter the coterminal Communications program on the Media Studies track and had gotten permission to start in the Stanford program in Oxford because it was closer to home, so even though he was three quarters ahead of Gil, this was his first quarter in the States. And he didn’t have a car, so Gil offered to drive him around town when he needed to run off-campus errands, and in return, Ardsley volunteered to teach Gil how to cook more than what Gil and Dean had learned how to scrounge out of canned goods and boxed meals. They managed to make it to Thursday without running into any of their dorm mates, including the guys in the adjoining room that shared a bathroom with theirs. Gil sensed some sort of discomfort from the neighbors, but neither he nor Ardsley ever heard anything, so they both agreed not to pry.

Thursday afternoon, however, they came home from a grocery run, and Gil started into the bathroom to put away his fresh tube of toothpaste. He’d just opened the door when a pale hand shot out, pulled him inside, and slammed the door behind him.

“What the _devil_ are you doing here?!” whispered a voice Gil hadn’t heard in over six years.

Gil stared wide-eyed at his assailant, whose hair was a distinctive and unusual shade of auburn. “Tar—”

“SHHHH!” Tarvek Sturmvoraus hissed urgently. “Out here, it’s _Travis Murphy_ , and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

Gil frowned. “That’s not exactly a Witness Protection alias.”

“Yes, well, I’m not exactly _in_ Witness Protection.”

“Why not?”

Tarvek huffed. “For one thing, Papa Jim managed to convince the FBI to leave my name out of all records of my testimony. Officially, it was Anevka who blew the whistle.”

“And she was already dead, so that’s convenient.”

“Right. For another, Dyedushka disowned Violetta and me both when he found out we’d turned Protestant.”

“Wow.”

“Yes, well, that was good enough while I was in high school and actually living in the parsonage, on sacred ground. But out here, I can’t be sure one of Dyedushka’s men won’t find me and try to recruit me again.”

“Dude, what are the odds of that? You’ve still got the hex bag, haven’t you?”

“A hex bag’s no good against human eyes and ears! ‘Loose lips sink ships,’ you ever heard of that?”

“ _Tarvek_....”

“Lover’s spat, _cheri?_ ” a female voice interrupted from the doorway into Tarvek’s room. Gil turned to see that it belonged to a lovely black girl with long, wavy hair, who was lounging against the doorframe.

Gil turned back to Tarvek. “Is this your roommate?”

“No,” Tarvek replied flatly as the girl laughed. “My roommate hasn’t showed yet. Colette lives upstairs.”

“ _Permettez-moi_ ,” the girl said. “Colette Voltaire, Computer Science.”

“ _Enchante_ ,” Gil replied and shook her hand. “Gil Wulfenbach, Aero/Astro.”

She smiled. “ _Enchante_.”

“My girlfriend,” Tarvek added pointedly.

Gil blinked at him. “Dude, chill. I’ve got my own girlfriend. And it’s someone you know.”

“Oh, really? You’re not... wait, _Agatha?!_ ”

Gil blushed, and Colette laughed again.

Just then Ardsley forced the other door open and surveyed the scene in surprise. “Good heavens!” he said. “You two know each other?”

“Oh, yes,” Gil replied before Tarvek could. “My dad’s one of the reasons _his_ last name is Murphy.”

“Which dad?” Tarvek snarked.

Gil had forgotten that little mistaken assumption on Tarvek’s part, and everything that had been simmering since Colorado Springs finally boiled over. “John Winchester is no father of mine, and you know it!” he snarled, barely managing not to slug Tarvek.

The smirk fell off Tarvek’s face. “Gil, what’s happened?”

“He won’t let Dean leave.”

“To come here?”

“No, to... to go _anywhere_ , really, but... I mean, there’ve been a few jobs he’s let Dean handle on his own or with Sam, nothing major. No, Dean got into Georgia Tech, and John freaked out. Wouldn’t even let him finish senior year with me in Beetleburg. I haven’t seen him since. Dad passed me his pager number, but they didn’t even come to graduation.”

Tarvek hissed. “Papa Jim said John was getting worse.”

“Yeah, well.” Gil paused. “Hey, how come you call him _Papa_ Jim?”

“Well, ‘Father’ was out because... well, you know.”

“Right.”

“And ‘Dad’ just felt wrong. ‘Brother’ was too Southern, and ‘Pastor’ didn’t feel right, either. One day Violetta was stuck between ‘Pastor’ and ‘Dad,’ and it came out ‘Papa,’ and... that stuck.”

Gil chuckled, but Ardsley frowned. “What....”

Tarvek sighed. “My adoptive father is a Lutheran minister.”

“Ado—” Ardsley broke off suddenly, looked at Tarvek’s hair, came all the way into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. “I _say!_ Your birth name’s not _Sturmvoraus_ , is it?!”

Tarvek looked at Gil in exasperation and gestured to Ardsley as if to say, _What did I tell you?_

“Ardsley’s cool,” Gil insisted.

“Then _how_ did he know my name?” Tarvek objected.

“Dude, his dad knows my dad. He’s probably got... connections.”

“Not least with _my_ father,” Colette chimed in. “Allo, Ardsley.”

“Colette,” Ardsley acknowledged.

Gil frowned. “So what does _your_ dad do, Colette? Or is that a secret, too?”

Colette shrugged. “Not particularly. He is director general of the _Renseignements Généraux_ in Paris.”

Gil blinked several times. “Then... your dad must be in....”

“MI6,” Ardsley confirmed quietly.

Tarvek and Gil looked at each other; Tarvek sighed, and Gil blew the air out of his cheeks.

Ardsley frowned a little. “You didn’t know?”

“Not _that_ part,” Gil admitted. “But you might as well know the rest. My dad, Tarvek’s dad, and John... they’re hunters.”

Ardsley and Colette exchanged a look.

“That explains the salt line,” Ardsley said.

“ _Oui_ ,” Colette agreed. “And the other wards.”

Gil looked at Tarvek. “Other?”

Tarvek shrugged a little. “Just a devil’s trap.”

Gil looked around at the other three students. “You know something?” he said, crossing his arms. “I think our two rooms might be the safest place on campus.”

* * *

At Tarvek’s insistence, Gil called Bobby Singer for the name of a shop in the Bay Area that sold real hoodoo, and he and Tarvek spent Saturday morning making hex bags—one to leave in each room, one for each of the four friends to carry on a daily basis. At Gil’s insistence, Colette helped Tarvek dye his hair a shade of red just unnatural enough to be obviously fake and thus disguise his Sturmvoraus heritage. Sunday, Gil and Tarvek went church-shopping together. And when classes started Monday, life quickly fell into an easy routine. Tarvek’s roommate never showed up, so Tarvek wound up spending as much time in Gil and Ardsley’s room as they did in his, and Colette hated her roommate and wound up spending as much time with the boys as she could within the bounds of propriety. All four of them had quite a few core classes together, too, since Gil was only three quarters behind the other three. Gil called Dad once a week, IMed with Agatha every night, and played pager tag with Dean when he could, and at the end of every unit he made copies of his notes to give to Dean, but mostly he kept too busy all summer to be lonely.

But the summer quarter ended in mid-August, and fall quarter didn’t start until late September. All three boys opted to pay the fee to stay in their rooms over the break; Colette, who was better off than all three of them combined, rented a condo on the beach. Ardsley wasn’t keen on beaches, though, and Gil wasn’t one to enjoy just lying around in the sun, so the four of them started taking day trips around the area every few days to explore and get out of the dorm for a few hours.

After about two weeks, Gil started getting _bored_.

That didn’t last long, however. The four friends were sitting around in Gil and Ardsley’s room on August 31 when Gil’s pager went off with 439-487-3326. Before Gil could get to his phone, the pager went off again, displaying 369-678-2477. Frowning, Gil picked up his phone and traced the number on the keypad twice before the message became clear: _Downstairs_. He ran to the window and looked down to see the Impala parked behind the building and Dean standing uncomfortably outside the back entrance.

“Gil?” Tarvek asked. “What is it?”

“Dean’s here!” Gil replied and dashed down to let him in.

“Dude,” Dean said as Gil opened the door for him. “What is this place, Fort Knox?”

“Haven’t you learned how to beat card readers yet?” Gil teased.

“No, never, uh, never really tried.” Dean came in and looked around, his stance still screaming discomfort.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t try to come in through the window. Would have broken the salt line.”

Dean huffed, smiled and ducked his head. “Yeah.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Gil gave Dean the biggest hug he’d ever given anyone who wasn’t Dad or Agatha. Dean startled, but then relaxed into the hug and hugged Gil back.

Dean had gained weight, most of it muscle. That was the only good change Gil sensed. Dean’s soul radiated the same degree of pain it had in Colorado Springs, and Gil caught traces of scents other than leather, gunpowder, and machine oil on him—alcohol, women, disinfectant, other smells Gil didn’t want to think about. And his heart ached.

“It’s been too long, my brother,” Gil whispered and healed what wounds he could.

“Too damn long,” Dean agreed.

After another long moment, Gil patted Dean’s back and let go. “C’mon up, meet everyone.”

Dean looked uncomfortable again. “Kinda need to talk to you.”

“We can talk in my room. Tarvek’s here.”

Dean blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. And Ardsley and Colette are cool. C’mon.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean followed Gil onto the elevator and into Gil and Ardsley’s room. By the time they walked in, Dean had his game face on, and after making introductions, Gil let Dean make small talk with Ardsley, trade good-natured barbs with Tarvek, peek under the bed to wave at Zoing, and flirt outrageously with Colette, who gave as good as she got. Gil knew it was all an act, of course, but at least Dean was up to putting it on.

“Seriously, though,” Dean said after a few minutes. “I need to talk over some family business with Gil.”

Ardsley, Tarvek, and Colette glanced at each other, then looked at Gil, who nodded.

“All right,” said Tarvek. “Let’s....” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the bathroom door.

Ardsley and Colette agreed, and all three of them went into the bathroom.

At Dean’s confused frown, Gil explained, “Our room and Tarvek’s share a bathroom. They can go through to his room from there.”

“Oh. Right.” Dean sighed and sat down in the chair Ardsley had just vacated.

Gil sat down in his own desk chair. “What’s going on? Why are you here alone?”

Dean sighed again, more heavily. “Sammy’s got the measles.”

Gil’s eyes widened. “What?!”

“I’m not contagious,” Dean disclaimed quickly. “I already passed quarantine. Took him to Sun’s, and Sun’s granddaughters scrubbed out the car for me. I’m clean.”

“That’s not what I— _measles?!_ ”

“I know. I thought we both got all our shots, but maybe we missed one; maybe it didn’t work; maybe it’s some weird mutant strain that could bypass the antibodies. Hell if I know. Sun didn’t.”

“But... okay, Sammy is in Sun’s hospital in Grand Rapids, and you’re _here_.”

“Sammy’s in Isolation. Sun won’t let me in to see ’im, even with a hazmat suit on. I can call once a day and talk to ’im on speakerphone, but that’s _it_.”

Gil frowned. “He thinks this is like that mono we had, doesn’t he?”

Dean nodded and leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “Said there was no point in my hangin’ around the hospital after I cleared quarantine ’cause there’s nothin’ I can do for ’im right now.”

“Doesn’t mean you had to leave town.”

Dean sighed again. “I know. I know. But there’s nothin’ to do in Grand Rapids I hadn’t already done. Plus, after the mono thing, I... well, I had this idea for a road trip, planned it all out while I was in quarantine. Ten states in ten days. Just get out, see some sights, come back and check on Sammy, maybe do it again ’til he’s better.”

“And John’s....”

“Off with your dad on a hunt. Think they’re up in Maine or something; I’m not sure.”

Gil huffed. “At least he’s sober. Probably. For now.”

Dean raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and nodded. “Anyway, I was maybe two minutes down the road when Dad paged me coordinates for a hunt. Said it was a werewolf, and with the full moon coming up this weekend, I had to leave right away. It’s between here and Fresno, so I was... I was on my way here anyway, figured I’d at least stop by, say hello. Maybe use the library computers for research.”

“But?”

“Rufus called me yesterday.”

“Rufus Turner?”

Dean nodded. “He’s the one who gave the initial info to Dad, wasn’t real pleased Dad had shoved it off on me. And now I know why.” He ran his hand over his mouth. “It’s not a were. It’s skinwalkers—at least five, maybe ten. They’re a pack. Male and his harem.”

“Don’t tell me. They escaped from von Blitzengaard’s.”

Dean nodded and ran both hands over his face. No one had been prepared for the scale of the breeding operation Tarvek’s cousin Martellus von Blitzengaard had been running on his ranch in western Nevada, supposedly for his exotic pet boutique in Las Vegas. Tarvek himself had known only that Martellus had been breeding werewolves, but Rufus had found thousands each of dozens of monster types, most of which required human flesh to survive. Von Blitzengaard had left the Sturmvoraus family’s criminal empire, but instead of going straight, he’d been conducting experiments on monster biology at the behest of Lucrezia’s father, Lucifer Mongfish—and breeding an army at the same time. Rufus had contacted the FBI to deal with von Blitzengaard himself, who was now in federal prison for life. But Rufus hadn’t been able to get adequate backup quickly enough, and some of the human-form monsters that were smart enough to wheedle their way past the FBI had disappeared before Rufus and his friends could put them down.

“I called Dad,” Dean continued hoarsely. “Tried to ask him for help. He wouldn’t even answer his phone.”

“Did you try Bobby?” Gil asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. He called around, but no one’s available from his network. Rufus didn’t know of anybody, either, or... at least, he never suggested anyone.” He looked away, unshed tears glittering in his eyes, and shook his head. “Gil, I don’t know what to _do_. Those skinwalkers have to be stopped, but this ain’t a one-man job. I can’t do it alone. But Dad... Dad doesn’t even care about _Sammy_ , and Sammy’s his favorite.” He shook his head again. “I mean, I don’t think he _wants_ me to die... I’m just not sure he’d know or care if I did.”

Gil sighed heavily.

“I mean, I’m... I’m not askin’ you to come with me. It’s my suicide mission, and... hell, you’re out. You deserve it. I just... don’t know what the right answer is.”

Before Gil could formulate a response that wasn’t cursing John Winchester’s name to kingdom come, he heard Ardsley’s voice in the bathroom say quietly, “Well, _I’m_ not driving.”


	3. Traveling Band

“Seriously,” Dean said for the fifth time as the Impala pulled away from the dorm after breakfast the next morning, “you don’t have to come.”

“Seriously,” Tarvek said for the fifth time from the back seat, “yes, we do. Or at least I do. It’s my family’s mess; it’s only fair that I help clean it up.”

“If we didn’t want to come,” Colette added, “we would not be here.”

“Quite so,” Ardsley agreed. “I believe we’re all here at least another four years; it wouldn’t do to exhaust all our local sightseeing options in one go. And a chap does want a certain amount of adventure in his life, though it is better not to have to go it alone.”

“Oh, definitely,” said Gil.

“What shall we call ourselves?” Colette wondered aloud. “Companions in adventure?”

“I think we’re rather more of a club by now, aren’t we?” Ardsley countered.

“The Stanford Adventure Club,” Tarvek said grandiosely, trying it on for size.

“The Stanford Adventure Club,” Colette echoed. Somehow it sounded even snazzier with her accent.

“The Stanford Adventure Club!” Gil tried in his best radio announcer voice.

“It’s only a model,” Ardsley deadpanned.

“Shh!” Tarvek and Colette said at the same time.

Gil cracked up.

“No, really, I like it,” said Tarvek. “Makes us sound like we need pith helmets.”

“Or T-shirts,” Gil suggested.

“Or both.”

“I think T-shirts are cheaper.”

“True.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Look, guys, this ain’t _Animal House_ we’re gettin’ into here. We could _die_ doin’ this.”

Tarvek huffed.

“Dean, we know the risks,” Colette insisted. “That’s why we can’t let you take them by yourself. If the worst _should_ happen to any of us, it’s still our choice. You won’t bear any blame.”

“At least we wouldn’t have to worry about passing Biology with Prof. Goodwin,” Ardsley said dryly.

Dean rolled his eyes again and switched on the radio just in time to hear:

> _737 comin’ out of the sky,  
>  Won’t you take me down to Memphis on a midnight ride... _

Gil and Tarvek started singing along almost immediately, and Dean relaxed in spite of himself.

The plan, on arriving at their destination, was simple. Ardsley and Colette, having legitimate intelligence and law enforcement ties, flipped a coin to see who would tackle getting information from the local police. Ardsley won and said he’d pass his curiosity off as MI6 being concerned about terrorists using rabies as a biological weapon. The rest of the group posed as student reporters gathering information about local attractions for a website advertising day trips from Palo Alto for Stanford students. Tarvek and Colette took one side of town, and Dean and Gil took the other side. They rendezvoused at a café on Main Street at noon for lunch and note sharing.

The result was... less than encouraging.

“Honestly,” Ardsley said, sliding a manila folder of police reports across the table to Dean, “I’ve no idea how your friend concluded that these were skinwalkers. Granted, there’s no clear link to the phase of the moon, so it can’t be a werewolf, but there’s precious little to distinguish these maulings from mere rabid dogs. And I do mean _rabid_ —two or three autopsies occurred quickly enough for the virus to be found in the wounds.”

Tarvek nodded. “All anyone could tell us was that the county’s been placed under a rabies warning and there’s a bounty for anyone who can catch or kill the dogs.”

“It’s believed they are in the woods southeast of town,” Colette added. “There is one road we were advised to warn our readers not to take if they should choose to go hiking. All the victims have been either hikers or people who live on that road, and the corpses are always found along it somewhere.”

“Yeah, but look at this.” Dean started to flip back through the reports, then quickly turned the photos over before showing the others what he was seeing. “Heart missing; heart missing; heart missing....”

“Could be the rabies that’s causing them to mutilate more than usual,” Gil suggested. “Maybe blood’s easier to swallow than water or something. And if they’re switching in and out of dog form, that could be why no one can find them—’cause who’s looking for a rabid _human?_ ”

Tarvek sat back, considering. “Huh. Rabies in humans usually kills within a matter of days after the onset of symptoms, but this has been going on for a couple of months. Skinwalkers are functionally immortal, which is probably why they’re still alive despite the infection, but it would make much more sense to a civilian to assume it’s a pack of feral dogs or something that are infecting each other and keeping the outbreak alive that way. And human-to-human transmission is rare.”

Ardsley frowned. “What would rabies in a human even look like to a layman?”

“Psychosis.”

Colette leaned forward. “That must be how they lure in their victims. A hiker or a neighbor finds a woman having a psychotic episode; she refuses to go to the hospital; the kind human takes her home....”

“Just in time for dinner,” Dean concluded.

Ardsley nodded and quoted, “Not where he eats, but where he’s eaten.”

It was a testament to the strength of Colette’s and Ardsley’s stomachs that such a thought didn’t prevent any of them from eating the (thankfully normal and delicious) food that arrived almost immediately afterward. Dean, Gil, and Tarvek, of course, had had plenty of practice.

Once they got back to the car, Dean spread a map of the county on the hood, and the others gathered around to look. “Okay. Here’s the farm road where the deaths have occurred. The last reported kill was on Friday, and they’ve never gone a full week between kills before, so they’re more likely than not to be trawling for victims again today. Colette, you can—”

“ _Non_ ,” Colette said firmly. “I will not be left behind.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You said at least five. There are five of us.”

“Four of us oughta be able to handle five dogs.”

“And if they aren’t dogs?”

“Dean, she’s got a point,” Gil said. “We need all hands on deck for this one.”

Dean sighed heavily. “Oh, all right. Can you shoot?”

“Pistol, rifle, shotgun, and submachine gun,” Colette replied, crossing her arms. “I’ve also studied hand-to-hand combat, both armed and unarmed, including judo, jujitsu, and Krav Maga.”

“And she’s _my_ girlfriend,” Tarvek warned unnecessarily.

“Lucky for Gil,” Dean jibed and folded up the map. “Didn’t you used to have a thing for Agatha?”

Tarvek’s eyebrows shot up. “After the things my father told me about her mother? Are you kidding? I was lucky I could even speak to her without dying of embarrassment!”

“It does take some practice,” Gil admitted and didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until Tarvek smacked him upside the head.

They waited until they’d driven a short distance out of town to stop and arm up. Gil and Ardsley had both smuggled their favorite sidearms into the dorm they day they’d moved in, so they had already loaded their guns with silver rounds and brought them along in concealed holsters, and Gil also had his silver hunting knife hidden in his jeans. Tarvek and Colette hadn’t brought their own weapons, however, so Dean loaned each of them a sawed-off shotgun and also handed around silver knives. Colette suggested moving Dean’s green cooler to the front floor board as well, since it had bottles of water in it.

And then they were off, windows down, driving slowly and seemingly aimlessly, just the Stanford Adventure Club taking a pleasant day trip to look for a hiking route.

About ten miles out of town, however, Gil heard a change in the birdsong. The pleasant everyday chatter took on a note of warning— _She’s coming, she’s coming, the mad wolf is hunting; be careful, humans, turn back, turn back!_

“Dean,” Gil said. “We’re getting close.”

He sensed confusion from the back seat as soon as he said that, but Dean went on the alert, scanning the roadsides more carefully. And a moment later, he pointed to a humanoid figure just coming over the top of the hill ahead of them, on the opposite side of the road. “There. That her?”

Gil couldn’t see much yet, not even enough to be able to tell if the figure was male or female, but the sunlight seemed to dim around its outline, and the birds were getting more agitated. “Think so, yeah.” He drew his Glock and heard a faint click as Ardsley switched off the safety of his Webley.

“Keep ’em low,” Dean cautioned. “Don’t wanna spook her too soon.” He kept both his own hands on the wheel. But that didn’t surprise Gil—Dean had to know that Gil had him covered if she attacked.

As the Impala cruised slowly toward the walking figure, it became clear that there _was_ something wrong. The individual was indeed female; her mousy brown hair was a stringy mess, her clothes dirty and torn, and her face looked fever-flushed. She weaved and stumbled drunkenly, which Gil sensed was only partially an act, and she shook her head side to side and hugged herself tightly.

And she was drooling profusely. Her shirt had a large dark patch, plainly soaked with saliva. Gil had to remind himself to keep his finger off the trigger—yes, she was rabid, but she was also their only lead to the location of the rest of the pack.

About the time Dean braked, the female started staggering across the road toward them. “Look friendly,” he ordered under his breath, then put on his own most disarming smile as they stopped and she approached his window. “Hi, there!” he called.

“Uhhh?” she half-whined.

Dean tilted his head. “Hey, you okay, lady?”

“Uh,” she replied, shaking her head back and forth and scratching at her upper arms. “Nuh. L-l-lost. Can’... f-fin’ my way home.”

“Here. Pretty warm out today.” Dean reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle of water, which he opened and held out to her while he passed the cap to Gil. “Want some water?”

Eyes widening, she stumbled back from the car, then shifted into the form of a wild-eyed, slavering border collie and raced off the way she’d come. Even as he handed the water bottle to Gil, Dean took his foot off the brake and followed, fast enough to keep pace but not fast enough to overtake her or hit her when she veered into their lane. Gil capped the water and put it back in the cooler, muttering words he didn’t know under his breath.

“ _Sacre bleu_ ,” Colette murmured.

“Never seen one shift before?” Tarvek asked her.

“Never seen one before at all.”

“Neither had I,” he confessed quietly.

The car was quiet after that as Dean followed the skinwalker another two or three miles to a dirt drive and thence to a dilapidated farmhouse. When he stopped, the skinwalker spun on the porch, snapping and snarling, and lunged back toward the car. Tarvek got the first shot off, though, and with a yelp, the skinwalker fell, a smoking hole in her chest. Tarvek and Dean both kept their guns trained on her as everyone got out, but she only whined and panted a few moments and then died.

And remained a dog.

Before anyone could comment, there was a wail of “Noooo!” from the farmhouse door. Another female skinwalker, not in much better shape than the first in her human form, came staggering out onto the porch, tears pouring from her eyes and drool pouring from her mouth. “My sister,” she sobbed. “My _sister_....”

Colette shifted, but Gil heard the slight clap of skin against skin as Tarvek grabbed her arm.

The live skinwalker looked up at them. “Please,” she pleaded. “It’s not our fault. He _made_ us.”

Something more than anger began welling up in Gil. Whatever the truth of her past was, whatever von Blitzengaard had done to her, she was trying to con them now.

“Please... please don’t shoot... we need help... we’re so sick... c-c-come in, please, help us....”

“She’s _lying!_ ” Ardsley bellowed.

The same words Gil had said on the road—some sort of binding spell, he suspected—came flowing out of him again, along with a burst of power, as the others readied their weapons. With a noise that was half scream and half snarl, the skinwalker on the porch shifted forms. And then they were up to their ears in rabid dogs as the pack poured out of the house and the nearby barn.

There weren’t five. There weren’t ten. There were _twenty_.

Between the five humans, of course, they still had plenty of ammo to deal with the onslaught. And most of the skinwalkers went down easily enough before they got close enough to do any damage. But then Dean and Gil were attacked from three directions at once. They managed to shoot two of the dogs—but Dean apparently forgot that Sammy wasn’t with them to cover his left side, and the third dog got past his guard and clawed him from armpit to hip before Colette could shoot it. Screaming in agony, Dean collapsed.

“DEAN!” Gil cried, shot another skinwalker while Ardsley and Colette converged to cover them, and then turned his attention away from the battle to his best friend. “Dean, are you bit?”

“No,” Dean managed. “Gil, don’t—”

Ignoring him, Gil put both hands over the bone-deep cut, closed his eyes, breathed a quick prayer, and started pouring healing power into Dean’s body. First he had to slow the bleeding, close the colon and kidney, destroy the rabies, destroy the lost fecal matter before it could cause infection, clear the air from the chest, close and reinflate the lung, repair the muscle....

“Gil! _Gil!_ ” Ardsley was shaking his shoulders urgently.

Gil opened his eyes and saw spots before Ardsley’s pale face swam into focus. “Huh?” Nobody was shooting; he smelled blood and death. “What—”

“It’s over.”

“ _No!_ ” Gil cried, looking down at Dean in panic. But no, Dean was still breathing, still bleeding, the glow of his soul still visible beneath his ribs.

“The _battle_ , you clod,” Ardsley explained. “We got all of them. You can let go now.”

“No, I can’t. He’s still hurt, he needs—”

Ardsley shook him again. “ _Gil_. He’ll recover. You’ve saved him. I can take it from here. But you nearly passed out.”

“I... I....”

Ardsley pointed firmly toward a faucet at the side of the house that was already running and had a bottle of dish soap standing next to it. “Go. Wash. Your hands.”

“’Kay.” Gil stood woozily and stumbled over to the faucet, stuck his hands under the running water, and leaned against the house for support. Behind him, he heard the _clack_ of Ardsley opening the first aid kit, and there was some other kind of metallic rattling from the barn.

“I suppose we really ought to take you to hospital,” Ardsley said.

“Nn,” Dean grunted. “N’hosp’tal.”

“But my dear chap—”

“Dun’... got ’nshrance... hadta... give Sammy....”

Ardsley huffed. “Well, there’s not enough disinfectant here for a wound this size.”

“Witha... spare tire... thrza... bottlea... Jack Daniels....”

Gil started to spin around in alarm, but his head wasn’t having it. The slight motion made him lose his balance completely; he fell against the house, and his legs crumpled beneath him.

“Stay _still_ , you idiot,” Ardsley told him and went to the car. “Just get that blood off you.”

Gil mumbled an affirmative and reached for the soap.

Ardsley rummaged in the trunk for a moment until Gil heard the clink of glass against metal. Then there was a _shhhuf_ he couldn’t quite place, and Ardsley walked back over to Dean. “Here, old man,” he said. “Bite down on this.”

Dean grunted quietly. Ardsley muttered something disparaging about American bourbon. Gil heard the click of the cap coming off the bottle, a slosh—and a muffled scream from Dean.

Washing the wound with alcohol. Of course. Gil really was out of it. And the sliding noise must have been Ardsley taking off his belt to let Dean bite on it.

About the time Gil realized he was sitting in a soapy puddle and Ardsley started packing Dean’s side with gauze, a rolling rattle from the barn caught Gil’s attention. He looked up to see Colette and Tarvek—completely unharmed, thanks be to God—rolling a flatbed trailer toward the Impala. There were already several dog corpses on it, and when Tarvek recommended stopping, Colette pulled up her leather gloves (where had those come from?) and went to collect another.

“You might do with some food, Gil,” Ardsley called over his shoulder. “Snack bag’s under the front passenger’s seat.”

“Uh-huh,” Gil replied and wobbled to his feet with about as much grace as a newborn colt. He staggered over to the car, climbed into the back seat, and helped himself to a bag of peanut M&Ms.

Not until he’d finished did he realize he should have found a towel first. But his pants were already dry, and there wasn’t so much as a smudge of mud on the edge of the seat beside him. Well, good; Dean would be grouchy enough about getting hurt without Gil having left a mess on the seats. Gil congratulated himself with another bag of M&Ms.

He was just contemplating trying to get himself some water when Ardsley came over and got it for him before folding down the front seat. Gil nodded his thanks and drank, but before he’d had more than a few guzzling swallows, Ardsley and Tarvek were loading Dean into the back seat, laying him on his right side—with his head in Gil’s lap.

“We’re almost ready to go,” Tarvek reported when they’d gotten Dean situated and Gil had drained his bottle. “We forgot the car doesn’t have a trailer hitch, so we still need to find a way to secure it to the trunk. And no suggestions from you,” he added sternly, waving a finger in Dean’s face. “If we can’t figure out how to get it to work without damaging the car, we’ll leave the trailer and send someone to get it when we get to town.”

Dean grumbled a little.

“And you rest,” Tarvek ordered Gil.

“Yes, Mom,” Gil shot back.

Tarvek huffed and helped Ardsley raise the back of the front seat again, and they both left to confer with Colette about the trailer.

Gil took a deep breath and let it out again, then started to move his left hand back down to the wound.

But Dean caught his wrist. “No.”

“Dean....”

“Gil. ’M gonna make it. Saved my life. Don’t kill yourself. Not for me.”

Gil huffed. “Dean, I—”

Dean pulled Gil’s hand down to rest on his chest, just over his heart. “Feel that. Only feel. ’Swhat I do... whenever Sa-... Sammy’s hurt... hurt or sick. An’ it helps. Just... just feel that. Not checkin’ out. Not today. Thanks to you.”

Gil sighed but focused on the rise and fall of Dean’s chest, his breathing still shallow and pained but constant, and the strong steady thudding of his heart. “Anytime, bro. Anytime.”

Dean smiled a little, murmured an affectionate insult, and fell asleep. And Gil felt his own eyelids drooping under the gentle lull of Dean’s heartbeat. He was vaguely aware when the door beside him closed, when Ardsley lifted Dean’s legs and set them in his own lap, when Tarvek got into the driver’s seat... but he was sound asleep before the car even started.

He woke up to the smell of sea air and the cries of seagulls and Colette’s voice saying, “Allo, M. Winchester, my name is Colette Voltaire. I’m calling on behalf of your son Dean.”

“Where are we?” Gil mumbled before he even got his eyes open.

“Colette’s beach house,” Ardsley replied from somewhere to Gil’s right. “Come on, old son; we’re staying here tonight. Tarvek’s taking Dean’s car back to campus and fetching Colette’s.”

Gil roused enough to open his eyes slightly, put his right arm around Ardsley’s shoulders, and let Ardsley help him out of the car and into the condo. Ardsley steered him back to one of the bedrooms, where Dean’s arm was lying on top of the lumpy covers; while Gil was trying to figure out where the rest of Dean was, Ardsley propped him against the wall and eased Gil’s shirt over his head, which made Gil realize he was still pretty dizzy. The next thing he knew, Ardsley was untying his boots, removing them gently, and taking off his socks with a grimace.

“What are you, my butler?” Gil asked when Ardsley moved on to his jeans.

“Oh, _do_ shut up, Gil,” Ardsley groused and pulled Gil’s jeans down, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He got Gil’s feet out of the jeans and stood. “There. As I’ve no intention of taking a shower with you but doubt you could manage alone without bashing your head open, which would do more damage to the tile than to you, if truth be known, this will have to do.”

“Thank you, Jeeves.”

There was a loud snort from the bed, followed by Dean’s voice saying, “Ow.”

“You do know,” Ardsley informed the bed, “you’d be in less pain if you were in hospital.”

“Bite me,” said the bed.

“Ruddy Yanks,” Ardsley grumbled and walked Gil over to the bed. Then he pulled back the sheets—oh, hello, there was Dean’s back, attached to his arm like it should be—and pushed Gil onto the mattress, swung his legs up onto it, and pushed his shoulders back until his head touched the pillow.

“But I don’t wanna be a bed,” Gil objected.

“ _Owww_ ,” said Dean and pounded his pillow.

Ardsley rolled his eyes and pulled the sheets up over both of them just as Colette walked in, holding somebody’s phone. “What is the name of Sammy’s doctor?”

“Dr. Sun,” Ardsley supplied before Gil could remember why Sammy had a doctor.

“Ah, _merci_.” She beeped some buttons for a moment, then lifted the phone to her ear. “Allo, is this Dr. Sun? ... Dr. Sun, my name is Colette Voltaire. I am calling on behalf of Dean Winchester. I believe this is the usual time he calls his brother? ... _Non, non_ , he was injured in a dog fight this afternoon, but he is conscious. ... _Merci bien_. ... Allo, Sammy? ... My name is Colette. I’m a friend of Dean’s. ... Yes, he is here. Just one moment.” She beeped another button and put the phone on the bed.

“Dean?” Sammy’s muzzy voice asked from thin air.

“Hey, kiddo.” Dean didn’t sound much better than his brother.

“Are you in France?”

Dean chuckled a little. “Nah, dude. I went to visit Gil, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

“Turns out Tarvek’s here, too.”

“Really? Hi, Tarvek!”

“Hi, Sammy,” Tarvek called from the doorway.

“So who’s Colette?”

“Tarvek’s girlfriend,” Dean replied and turned his head just enough to wink at Tarvek.

There was a pause before Sammy asked, “You’re not gonna steal her like you stole all of Gil’s girlfriends, are you?”

Colette laughed so hard, she lost her balance.

* * *

Ten days later, as Zoing hunted for more shells and Dean and Gil sat on the beach drinking beer Dean had bought with fake ID and watching the last golds and purples of sunset fading over the Pacific, Gil said, “I dunno. Maybe we _should_ get T-shirts.”

“Dude, it _still_ hurts to laugh,” Dean protested, putting a hand to his still-pink side.

“So why’d you want to get these today?” Gil returned, gesturing to the new tattoo on his chest. Dad might kill him, but Dean had used his share of the bounty on the skinwalkers to pay for the tattoos as a thank-you gift to Gil and insisted they both get the same design—a pentangle in a sunburst, which Bobby had said was an anti-possession sigil. “Could have waited at least until Saturday.”

Dean suddenly found the label on his beer very interesting.

“... Dean?”

“Sun called,” Dean admitted quietly. “They’re movin’ Sammy out of Isolation on Monday.”

Gil stared. “Dude, you just started walking on your own two days ago! You can’t—”

“Dad still isn’t answering his phone. And Klaus won’t tell me what’s going on; he just said they’re tied up.”

“So send Bobby or someone!”

Dean sighed. “Bobby got a new dog last month, and he doesn’t have anyone to watch him. And I’ve driven further in worse shape than this.”

“You are without a doubt the most stubborn, pig-headed—”

“Oh, yeah? Pot, kettle, black, Gil. How long did it take _you_ to get back on your feet because you wouldn’t listen to any of us and actually rest for more than five hours at a time?”

Gil huffed. “You needed my help.”

“Maybe so.”

The fact that Dean would even admit such a thing startled Gil into paying closer attention.

Dean pointed his bottle at Gil. “But I am _not_ gonna be the one to call Agatha and tell her you died saving me.”

Gil flinched. “I wasn’t—”

“You don’t know that. Hell, none of us even know what you _did_. And that was _after_ whatever that binding spell was, and don’t say it has nothing to do with the healing, ’cause I felt whatever you unleashed. It came from _you_. Lockin’ twenty skinwalkers in dog form, even after death... man, that ain’t trivial.”

Gil ducked his head.

Dean paused with his beer partway to his mouth. “You don’t know how you did it, either, do you?”

“No,” Gil confessed. “It just... came out.”

Dean turned to him fully. “Gil, listen to me. I don’t care where it came from. I don’t care where the healing junk came from. I really don’t. I coulda died; they coulda nailed us for murder. You saved our hides. But you’ve _got_ to be careful, man. Or else one o’ these days, you’re gonna go too deep and burn your batteries out for good. What would that do to Agatha, huh?”

Gil sighed heavily. “I guess you’re right.”

“’Course I am,” Dean said with the barest of winks and drained his beer.

Just then Zoing whistled for their attention and came scurrying up from the water, brandishing two pieces of shell. One he dropped in Gil’s hand; the other he presented to Dean.

“For me?” Dean asked and accepted it. “Thanks, dude.”

Gil studied his piece quickly, noticing the break pattern, and then looked at Dean’s, which seemed to have the same pattern. He held his out, and Dean held his up to it. They matched.

“Zoing,” Gil asked, “did you make us a _friendship shell?_ ”

 _Yop!_ Zoing replied, looking pleased with himself.

Dean muttered something about chick flick moments and closed up the cooler, and Gil laughed and put Zoing’s harness back on him.

* * *

When Dean left Palo Alto the next day, he had four binders of notes and a batch of used textbooks in the trunk, and his half of the friendship shell hung by a string from the rearview mirror. Gil framed his half and put it on the shelf next to the picture of himself and Agatha at graduation. And Ardsley declared that while he was nobody’s butler, Gil was stuck with him for a roommate “because _somebody_ needs to bash some sense into you once in a while.”

Agatha actually said she agreed with him. Gil did, too, but he didn’t _say_ so.

While wholly unofficial and completely informal, the Stanford Adventure Club quickly attracted new members, especially from among the international students, once the fall quarter started. Chief among these were Colette’s new roommate, Sleipnir O’Hara, who was from Dublin, and Tarvek’s new roommate, Theo DuMedd, who had been born in India but grew up in a children’s home in Cincinnati after his parents were killed in a battle with Somali pirates. Other members would come and go over time, getting involved to greater or lesser degrees; one who joined in ’99 but never quite allowed himself to fall into the inner circle was Vanamonde von Mekkhan, who always knew all the latest gossip and all the best places for coffee but never said more about himself than that he was from Romania. And Dean remained an honorary member, though he was seldom in town more than once a quarter and had Sam with him even more rarely.

Most days, the Adventure Club only ate lunch together. Weekends might involve a movie night or a party, at which Theo’s cocktails became infamous for their potency. Longer breaks might lend themselves to hiking, biking, kayaking, or other low-key adventures of that sort.

But sometimes, especially when Dean was in town and the core group had the time... well, sometimes they went hunting.

* * *

“I don’t understand,” the black-eyed demon, on loan from Pestilence, moaned to his yellow-eyed temporary master in a private booth in a Paris nightclub. “Gil Wulfenbach is _gone_. There shouldn’t have been anyone at Stanford for Dean to contact, never mind saving his life. I even gave those skinwalkers _rabies_ just to make sure. Why didn’t this work?!”

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t accept such a failure,” Azazel replied. “Especially after the ghoul fiasco, although that one had a silver lining. The ghouls did kill the wrong target, but John Winchester’s reaction to it has helped his relationship with his sons to deteriorate further. This time, there’s no salvaging an advantage from the loss. But perhaps it’s just as well. As it stands, we’d have no guarantee that Dean will end up in Hell when he dies or that John would be willing to make a deal for either or both of their lives. And Sam hasn’t come into his powers yet. Granted, I can’t be absolutely sure they’re the right family, but assuming they are, we’ve got to get all our ducks in the right rows. We can’t have the first seal breaking before our Boy King is ready to take his throne, now, can we?”

“But sir—”

“Hey.” Azazel patted the junior demon’s cheek. “This ain’t like Pestilence’s campaigns. He’s way too hasty, and so are you. We never had you on tempter duty, did we?”

“No, sir.”

“You missed some key training, then. We’ve gotta play the long con here, take our time, groom those boys carefully so they’ll do just what we want when the time _is_ right. I hate to admit it, but C. S. Lewis had a point: ‘The safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.’”

“But patience is a _virtue_ , isn’t it, sir?”

Azazel grabbed the junior demon by the throat. “ _What_ did you say?!”

“Nothing, sir!” the junior demon squeaked.

Azazel snorted and let him go. “You’re lucky I’d already decided to assign you a human partner to help you with this assignment.”

The junior demon blinked. “Sir?”

Azazel stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and a young platinum blonde with pale blue eyes and voluptuous curves, which her tight-fitting clothes showed with calculated precision, ducked past the curtain and sashayed up to the table.

The junior demon’s eyes raked over her, and he hummed appreciatively. “My new suit?”

Azazel chuckled. “I wouldn’t try it, and not just because she’s almost as promising a witch as her aunt. Show him, sweetie.”

The girl giggled flirtatiously, turned around, and lifted the back hem of her shirt to display an anti-possession sigil tattooed at the small of her back.

“Oh,” said the junior demon, disappointed.

“That said,” Azazel noted, “you two will be working together for quite some time. I don’t see that there’s any harm in, ah... _close_ companionship. You probably have a lot to teach each other.”

The junior demon grinned, and the girl shimmied over to sit on his lap.

“Now,” Azazel said, and the girl turned to look at him. “Zola, honey, how would you like to take a job in San Francisco?”

Zola Malfeazium’s smile turned from seductive to cruel, and her eyes glinted with greed, little less than had shone in the eyes of her late aunt, Lucrezia Mongfish. “Anything, my lord. _Anything_.”


End file.
